


A Case of Mistaken Identity

by idelthoughts



Category: Forever (TV), Quantum Leap
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bodyswap, Case Fic, Crossover, Gen, Humour, Mistaken Identity, Parent-Child Relationship, Reveal, Secret Identity, fathers and sons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 04:16:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5233763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idelthoughts/pseuds/idelthoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Sam Beckett leaps into the lives—and bodies—of people throughout time to put right what once went wrong.  It’s never easy, but leaping into the life of one Abraham Morgan makes his usual missions look like child’s play. This time, Sam might not be the only one with secrets to keep...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [superlc529](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superlc529/gifts).



> This is part of the Forever Crossover Ficathon! Thank you so much to [superlc529](http://archiveofourown.org/users/superlc529/pseuds/superlc529) for being an excellent Quantum Leap consultant and keeping me in line, and to [SpaceCadet72](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacecadet72/pseuds/Spacecadet72), [andveryginger](http://archiveofourown.org/users/andveryginger/pseuds/andveryginger), and [aika_max](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aika_max/pseuds/aika_max) for the beta reviews!
> 
> Be sure to check out the rest of the ficathon and all the amazing crossover fics!

Sam Beckett blinked away the blue flash of the leap, staring down into the trunk of a car and a bright green towel clutched in one fist.

A towel. A _towel_? Was he at the beach?

Judging by the dark night and the frigid whip of wind and rain, that seemed very unlikely.

“If this is to teach me better judgment in watching where I am going at night, then please, I’d prefer a lecture to standing out here any longer than necessary.”

Sam pulled his head from the trunk of the car—from the ’80s, or ’90’s maybe? It wasn’t new, so he was sometime after then—and looked for the source of the voice. He didn’t have to look far.

Next to the car was a man, stark naked and shivering, nearly blue with cold and thoroughly soaked. He’d either been out in the rain for a very long time, or he’d been in the water lapping at the shore next to them.

“Uh. Bad night for a swim,” Sam said lamely.

The man snatched the towel from him with a withering look.

“Yes, I am perfectly aware,” he said. “I do appreciate your kindness in coming to get me, Abe, but I’d really like to get home before I’m arrested again.”

 _Abe_. Sam had a name, at least.

Abe, who drove a car from the late Twentieth Century, with a friend who went to the beach naked often enough that he got arrested for it in…wherever he was.

He looked around, hoping to spot a landmark, and was immediately rewarded with a stunning view of the Brooklyn Bridge spanning the East River. He was in New York.

“Let’s move along, shall we?” British—the guy sounded British, all proper and formal even while totally naked with chattering teeth and blue lips. “I’d like to have a hot shower before I die of exposure. I’ve had more than enough of the river tonight.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” Sam said. He was falling a further step behind with each turn of this leap.

The man rounded the side of the car and got into the passenger seat, which meant Sam was the driver. How was he supposed to know where were they going?

Well, it was better than being shot at, or shooting someone, or being shot out of a cannon. Nighttime storms and cranky naked guys were tame in comparison to some of his leaps.

He looked around the parking lot, hoping to catch sight of Al’s holographic form to provide him with any insight, but the night was free of any Naval officers in gaudy suits packing helpful information from the future.

Address, address, where was he going to find an—

With a flash of hope, Sam scrabbled in the pockets of the loose khakis he was wearing. There were a million and one bits and pieces in there, scraps of notes, sweets and sweet wrappers, keys—oh, he’d need those shortly—and a wallet.

“Bingo,” he whispered, and flipped it open.

Front and centre, a driver’s license. The face he was surely sporting stared back at him—greying hair, a friendly smile, keen blue eyes.

“Hello, Abraham Morgan,” he said. “Sorry about this. I'm gonna be borrowing your body for a bit, but you’ll have it back in no time.”

He was in the car and had the keys in the ignition before he realized that the last time he’d been in this part of the world, he was in Brooklyn, and it had been 1972. His mercifully photographic memory could likely guide him back to that apartment he’d spent a week in as a teenaged girl tending to three younger brothers, but how the hell was he going to find Suffolk Street in Manhattan?

He looked over at the man beside him, who’d pulled on soft cotton sweatpants and a zip-up sweatshirt adorned with the NYPD crest, and had the towel over his head and was busily scrubbing at his hair to dry it.

The crest was unexpected enough that Sam paused, trying to sort the pieces once again to make a cohesive picture. Who was this guy? Police officer-turned-streaker with a thing for swimming in the river on cold and rainy nights, and an old guy in the getaway car?

And where the hell were they going?

“Hey,” Sam said calmly, trying for jovial. “You know, I’m a little tired—you mind driving?”

His new friend pulled the towel from his head and gave him a puzzled look.

“While I appreciate your newfound faith my driving abilities, Abe, after twenty-eight years I am a little rusty. Tonight’s conditions might not be the best for re-familiarizing myself with the craft.” He dropped the towel to his lap. “Is something wrong? Are you feeling alright?”

“No—no, fine! I’m fine. It’s nothing.” He forced a smile and took a deep breath as he turned the key in the ignition. “Yep, gonna just, you know, take it easy. We’ll get there.”

The man settled back in his seat, but Sam could feel his eyes still on him. He put the car in drive and pulled forward from the parking lot to face the road.

Left, or right?

He leaned forward and peered into the night, hoping for some kind of sign, and the man next to him shifted in his seat.

“Abraham, are you quite sure you’re alright?”

There was a loud grating noise noise and a familiar bright light. In the headlights of the car, the white rectangle of the Imaging Room door appeared.

From it stepped Al, resplendent in all his holographic glory. The driving rain and wind didn’t affect him at all, safely tucked away in the military base several thousand miles and many years in the future. Loose bits of leaves and garbage whisked through his illusory body as he poked at the little handlink controller in his palm, his omni-present cigar clutched between two fingers.

“Left,” Al said loudly over the storm. “You’re gonna take a left. First right onto the ramp for a bridge, then two lefts and a right, you’re there.” He looked up from the handlink and winked at Sam. “Gotcha covered. We found you nice and easy this time.”

Sam gave him a relieved smile, turned his indicator on, and pulled out into the street.

“Feeling fine,” Sam said to his companion. “Just needed to collect myself a little. We’ll be home in no time.”

***

The leap before this had been like a little vacation. Sam’s host was approximately the same physical size and shape as Sam’s own body, which he’d left behind in the Waiting Room at Project Quantum Leap many miles and many years away. His host lived in an isolated cabin ten minutes outside of town, had few social contacts, and Sam’s grandiose timeline correction mission consisted of saving a dog from being run over in front of his property.

Apparently the dog went on to have puppies, one of whom would live a very auspicious life. That puppy would become a guide animal and save the life of a young blind man bound to become an influential US Senator and champion of several important human rights laws. It was a cascading series of events all tracing back to the life of one little dog. As Sam sat on the side of the road with the bundle of black curls and wiggles excitedly licking his face, he marvelled at how very fragile the web of history was. Break one string and whole stories unravelled.

One wet, meaty lick up the side of his nose ended that serious reflection, and any further thoughts were lost when the leap carried him away, depositing him in stormy New York City.

This leap wasn’t going to be nearly as simple, he could already tell.

Thankfully, the realities of hologram technology meant that Al could fix his location to Sam’s. Al floated alongside the vehicle like a ghostly, speeding sidecar as they travelled through the dark and rainy streets. He refrained from making any comments to spare Sam the extra challenge of dividing his attention further, merely poking his head in to eye Sam’s companion now and again, or to offer instruction on turns and lane changes.

“This is the place. On the corner there.” Al pointed ahead and to the right.

“Abe’s Antiques,” Sam said, reading the sign. When the man next to him looked to him at the comment, he added, “Home sweet home.”

“Hm,” was the grunted response.

They parked and his companion left the car, trotting for the dry lee of the doorway to hide from the rain. Sam opened his door and threw a leg out but his back gave a warning twinge, muscles protesting the quick movement. Right, seventy-two. Wasn’t going to be quite as spry as he’d like. He heaved himself from the car and groaned at the pop and stretch of his back. Looked like night runs for skinny-dippers was a little bit outside Abe Morgan’s daily routine.

“You doing okay there?” Al asked him, pulling his cigar between his teeth. The billow of smoke rose up and disappeared a foot above his head, where the holographic field projection around him ended.

“Yeah,” Sam muttered, hiding his conversation with taking a moment to stretch his back and then lock up the car. “Do you know who that guy is? Any ideas yet why I’m here?”

“Gooshie’s working on it. For some reason we haven’t been able to dig up any info on your buddy there, and Abe’s not the most cooperative Waiting Room guest.” He waved his hand loftily, the glow of the cigar ash bright against the background darkness. “See what you can find out, and I’ll try to get more for you.”

“Yeah, right,” Sam tilted his head towards Al briefly as he turned. “Make it quick, okay?”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Al said with a mock salute. The door of light slid open once again, taking his friend away.

Lifeline gone. Just Sam here, now. Well, him and The Streaker over there.

When Sam arrived at the door his new friend looked rather sheepish, huddled up against the door.

“I lost another set of keys,” he said, and then held up his hand as though to forestall Sam’s answer. “I know, I know, I said I would copy them, but I didn’t get around to it, and…” He shrugged, looking sincerely flustered. It was a change from his previous aplomb.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll get you a new set in the morning,” Sam said. “Let’s just get inside and get warmed up, hey?”

Sam fiddled with the key ring in his hand, hedging his bets on which would open the door. Yale lock, standard sized key, and he made his best guess. It was wrong. Damn.

“Dark out here,” he said with a forced chuckle. “Gimme a sec.”

He searched the keyring for his next likely suspect, and a hand closed over his.

“Let me.”

The man was almost tender as he pulled the keys from Sam’s hand, his eyes never leaving Sam as he selected the proper key and unlocked the door. Though he was barefoot and still clearly half-frozen, he ushered Sam through the door first with attentive care. Sam halted in the middle of the floor, turning a circle and looking around with a frown.

 _I live in a furniture store,_ he thought. _Great_.

A jaw-cracking yawn hit him, and his whole body shuddered with it. He was ready to collapse into the nearest chair or bed as soon as possible. He wasn’t familiar with the various aches and pains of Abe’s body, but the evening’s adventure, it seemed, had been a bit too much.

“Abe?” His friend, hair still damp, clasped his hands together in front of him like a schoolboy delivering a formal apology. “I know that rooting you out of bed in the middle of the night like this is difficult. I am sorry.”

“Oh, hey, it’s no problem,” Sam said. He hoped that was the right answer. Another yawn hit him, and his friend took a few steps towards him.

“Are you sure you’re alright? You seem a little…” He searched for a word, waving a hand inarticulately, then dropped it to his side with a sigh. “Not yourself.”

Sam gave him a weak smile. _Good spotting, fella_.

“Just tired. It’s been a long day.” His friend looked dubious, so Sam looked him straight in the eye and dredged up as much honest sincerity as he could. “Seriously, I’m good.”

It took another moment before his friend reluctantly nodded.

“Very well." He then smiled warmly with a fond shake of his head. He came close and pulled Sam into a hug. "You can’t keep a man from worrying about his son, no matter how old he is.”

Sam returned the hug, nearly sighing in relief at getting off the hook, but the relief was followed hard by confusion as he tried to parse the meaning of the statement. He sounded like he was speaking of himself as a fretful father, rather than the other way around. Surely he was referring to Abe’s worry about him and his late-night naked adventures—which meant this guy was Abe’s son. That made more sense. Sam would love to have a name to go with the relationship, as that could get awkward quickly, but this was a good start. If he hadn’t been one of those kids who called their parents by their first name, Sam could have picked up on this sooner.

“No problem.” Sam patted him on the back, striving for a parental air. “You should get some sleep yourself.”

“Yes, I’m going to have a very early morning with Detective Martinez debriefing on the details of our case.”

_Works with a detective—okay, definitely NYPD._

He took the lead now, and gratefully Sam followed the guy as he went through the store into a hallway in the back. It led to a narrow staircase that went up to a second storey, and a well-lit, beautiful apartment, lots of rich colours and wood.

“I’m going to shower and get straight to bed,” he said to Sam. “Thank you again for coming to get me.”

A yawn took Sam by surprise, and his jaw cracked as he covered it. He was starting to feel Abe's fatigue in every muscle and joint. A glance at a nearby clock showed it to be twenty after two in the morning.

“Anytime,” Sam said.

Abe’s son noted the glance at the clock and rolled his eyes.

“Yes, well—I’ll be sure next time to die at a more convenient hour.”

Sam blinked at the odd statement, wondering if this was some kind of in-joke between the two of them.

“Or you could try not dying at all,” Sam said, trying to guess at the most appropriate response.

“Very funny,” came the dry response.

He padded out of the room on bare feet, and disappeared into the back hall. Sam grabbed a chair from the kitchen table and pulled it out to sit heavily in it.

The first minutes and hours after a leap required feats of mental gymnastics of memory, observation, and self-control. Mental exhaustion wasn’t helped by the physical exhaustion of his host, and having a close family member right by his side to watch him flail and guess his way through Abe’s life wasn’t going to help much at all.

Last thing he needed was to get Abe locked away in an old age home because his son thought Abe was losing his mind. And this was just the first hour—never mind when Sam started meddling to sort out whatever needed sorting to keep timelines straight.

“Oh boy,” Sam said quietly to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

When Abe was fourteen, he discovered his dad was immortal. Feeling ill, he’d decided to skip his after-school study club and come home to sleep, expecting his parents to both be at their hospital shifts. Instead, Henry and Abigail were at home in heated discussion. After filing their taxes for the previous year, they had now been notified the Internal Revenue Service selected them for an audit. Henry was in a fit over it.

“How do I invent four more years of paperwork for them to rifle through?” Henry was the middle of ranting to Abigail in a distracted fury. “Since 1914, I have had more and more difficulty trying to satisfy the world’s new craving for endless paperwork. They want seven years of history, but seven years is enough for people to notice I don’t ever age! How am I supposed to—“

Henry had turned and seen Abe standing in the doorway and paled, choked into silence. Behind him, Abigail had covered her mouth with both hands.

 _“I don’t ever age.”_ Henry never had, had he?

Abe had looked at his father— _really_ looked, beyond the shocked expression to the youthfulness of his face. His mom had deeper smile lines, deeper creases at the corners of her eyes, but not his dad. His hair—Abe remembered his dad greying his hair at the temples back before they’d left New York in the middle of the night three years ago, for no reason that Abe could tell other than a desire to look distinguished. He’d stopped the practice here in Rochester. His mom’s hair had streaks of silver among the blonde, only visible occasionally at the roots when her colouring grew out, but Dad? No, he looked the same as he always had.

 _Exactly_ the same.

In that moment, Abe’s narrow, childish view of the world had broken wide, and over the course of the next year, he’d been welcomed into the family secret. It had explained many things, but left him with more questions than answers.

Henry should have been impossible, but he existed. The world was capable of so much more than anyone knew. What else existed out there that Abe had discounted as dreams and fantasy? Were aliens real? The Loch Ness Monster? God?

Aside from all the weirdness that came with Henry’s life, the rest of the world had borne out to be spectacularly normal. Abe had his share of excitement of the everyday human drama kind. Though he was still holding out judgment on aliens (and God, as anyone confronting their eventual mortality was wont to do), he’d come to terms with Henry being one of the few supernatural surprises the universe had to dish out.

Now, confronted with Rear Admiral Albert “You can call me Al—no, don’t start singing” Calavicci, military observer for something called Project Quantum Leap, in a room that might as well have been an empty eggshell for all the features it had… Yeah, Abe was finding it a little much to fit into his hard-won world view.

One thing he did know is that no matter how many questions they asked him about Henry, he wasn’t going to say a damned thing. When armed forces personnel started spouting sci-fi nonsense about body displacement and time travel as a segue into asking about your immortal dad and “anything you can tell us will be a big help, sir,” it was time to button up.

Abe looked down at himself, which was decidedly not himself. He patted his flat stomach with a youthful hand, the stretch of his body just that much farther from the ground than he was used to. His lower back and left knee weren’t troubling him, both of which had become such constant low-level background aches that he barely gave them any mind until the pain was gone.

“Not bad digs,” he said, taking a closer look at his unfamiliar hand, then at the thin, white, disco-fever jumpsuit he was stuffed into. Even his tightest jeans back in the day hadn’t left this little to the imagination. “The outfit could use a little work, though.”

Admiral Al, an obnoxious man wearing a teal suit with shoulders cut like a linebacker’s padding and a silk shirt beneath with a tiled pattern of macaw parrots, was perched on the only piece of furniture in the room, a slab-like table that Abe had woken up on. He’d opened his eyes to a woman, Dr. Verbena Beeks, she’d called herself, leaning over him and speaking in gentle tones. She’d traded off with Admiral Al when Abe had refused to cooperate with her.

Al had come and gone several times in the past few hours that Abe had been cooped up in here, his omnipresent cigar filling the room with a thick scent that lingered as a reminder when he was gone. He eyed Abe like a kid throwing a temper tantrum when Abe refused to answer his prying questions.

“Cutbacks, you know how it is.” Al took the cigar from his mouth and gestured up and down with it to indicate Abe’s borrowed body. “Give me some info I can use to help out Dr. Beckett, and I’ll see about getting you a decent pair of pants.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want _you_ put in charge of any of my future fashion choices.”

“Feisty old bugger, aren’t you?” Al scratched his head, looking like he was regrouping for a new attack. “Look, I know it’s cuckoo, but Dr. Beckett only needs to be there for a short time. Sometimes the timelines get a bit screwy and he... Well, just think of him as the handyman in to fix up a loose screen door, or the plumber who unclogs the sink. He tidies up the bad business, then he’s gone and you’re back like nothing happened. You and everyone around you remembers the new timeline events, and any of this—” he gestured to the room around them, “will seem like a fading dream.”

Abe definitely hadn’t called any handyman or plumber, and didn’t think much of of one busting his way into his life uninvited. He folded his arms with pointed silence. Al rubbed his forehead in frustration.

“The harder it is for Sam to pretend to be you and keep normal daily life ticking along, the harder it is for all that to happen quickly. A little information would be helpful. Like, say, your son’s name?”

“My son?” The unexpectedness of the question drew the response out of him.

“Yeah. The guy with the nudity problem?”

The few hours before Abe had ended up in this place were a fuzzy, vaguely remembered shadow up until now, but it came rushing back with sudden clarity. He’d been picking Henry up from the river after a sheepish call about staying late to tie up a bunch of paperwork on a sensitive case, making his way home on his bicycle in a storm, and getting in a hit and run. The damned idiot, he was so cavalier with his life it was like he was begging to have someone find out he was immortal.

“For whatever reason, our computer, Ziggy, is having trouble when it comes to finding out information about him. Something about timelines that don’t make sense, or something gone screwy with the data—I don’t know, the geeks are working on it. If you help me out it’ll go faster. Dr. Beckett can finish his mission and get out of your hair. Body. Whatever.” For a guy who looked like he was about to sell you a car that would barely make it off the lot, Al gave all the indications of sincerity, which plucked at Abe’s conscience.

Abe paced away from him and around the edge of the sterile white room, irritated with himself for wanting to tell Al anything. He sure as hell wasn’t going to put Henry at risk by blabbing. As it was, whoever had barged into their life could easily discover Henry’s secret without any help from Abe, if Henry ran off his big mouth as he usually did, especially having leapt right into the middle of a river pick-up.

Thankfully they still had the wrong end of the stick. If they thought Henry was Abe’s son, they were going to be in for a big surprise. He’d almost pay to see Henry’s face if… _Oh_.

“Okay, fine,” Al sighed from behind him. “I’ll give you some time. Just shout if you want to talk. I’ll get ‘em to bring you lunch.”

Abe spun around, and Al stopped in the midst of sliding off the table, curious.

“His name is Henry.”

“Henry Morgan?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

Al pulled at his chin as he narrowed his eyes at Abe, and Abe hoped that his borrowed face—whatever it looked like, because they still wouldn’t give him a damned mirror—wasn’t as obvious as Henry’s when he decided to tell a lie.

“You’ve had a change of heart,” Al said.

“I want to get the hell outta here. Not sure I’ve got too many choices left.”

If anyone could figure out this level of crazy, it was Henry. Henry already had to be on alert—there was no way someone else was going to masquerade as Abe and Henry not pick up that something was wrong. Feed them a bit of misinformation and Henry would be all over it. Unless he thought Abe had gone off the deep end.

It was a risk he’d have to take. He had no other way to get help.

Al sat back down on the table. He stuck the cigar back between his teeth and poked a few buttons on the little handheld computer in his palm, which squawked and blatted in response.

“Okay, let’s get some family details down. His mother still around?”

Abe snorted aloud. Lydia Morgan, rest her soul, was long gone and not turning up any time soon. Abe toyed with the idea of dropping her name anyway as a clue to Henry, but a better idea occurred to him.

“Maureen? My ex? Nah, she left Henry with me last time she took off. He was five, maybe six. Just been him and me all this time.”

The little handset bleeped as Al tapped at it a few times. He shot Abe a sympathetic look.

“Sorry to hear it. Seems like you two are pretty close, though.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we do pretty well.” Abe came and sat on the table next to Al. For the hell of it, because he could, he brought his legs up on the table and sat cross-legged. He patted his knees with a chuckle. “You know how long it’s been since I could do that?”

“There’s gotta be a few perks,” he said. Al smiled, almost kind. “Thanks, Abe. I know this isn’t easy. Just a few more questions, okay?”

Abe nodded. This was almost fun, if he ignored the fear.

“Bring it on.”

***

Despite his exhaustion, Sam woke at six in the morning. It was obvious he wasn’t going to get back to sleep, even though he’d all but fallen into bed last night. Pyjamas had been cast haphazardly on the top of the rumpled bedclothes when he’d finally found Abe’s bedroom, as though they’d been discarded quickly.

Being up early gave him a chance to poke around before his as-yet unnamed son was up, but the bed was temptingly comfortable. Sam rolled onto his back and stretched, savouring the chance to relax for a moment without immediately racing into action.

There were precious few moments in his life—in other people’s lives, he should say—that involved relaxing. Someday he hoped he’d leap into the middle of someone’s Bahamas vacation, where his mission involved finishing three piña coladas before sunset.

“About time. Here I thought I was gonna have to watch you sleep for another few hours.”

Sam lifted his head. Al was standing by the foot of the bed with a raised eyebrow and hands on his hips. So much for relaxing.

He swung his legs over the side and got up from the bed, groaning as he did so.

“Whadya got for me?” he asked.

“Not as much as I’d like. Abraham Morgan, born 1945 in Poland. War orphan, adopted and grew up in the States, though it looks like the adoption records are all mucked up, so we don’t have more than that yet.” Al started to pace the room, idly examining all the tchotchkes adorning the bedroom dresser and table tops. “Concrete information around this guy is full of holes. If I was the paranoid sort, I’d almost say someone’s gone out of their way to make sure it’s not easy to piece his life together.”

Sam opened a drawer on the dresser Al was hovering near, inspecting a photo, looking for clothes for the day. The drawer cut into Al’s incorporeal image, the corner of it disappearing into his torso. Al pointed towards the photo, which was of three soldiers standing together.

“Probably ‘Nam. I’ll feed that into Ziggy, see if we can find any more info in military records.”

Sam rooted out socks and underpants from the neat drawer. Abe was a tidy guy, thankfully. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d leapt into someone’s life only to have to immediately do laundry to find anything to wear. He rooted through another drawer and found pants and shirt. He twirled his finger at Al.

“You mind?”

“Oh, right.” Al turned his back to Sam, granting him a bit of privacy to get dressed.

“Abe any more cooperative?”

“Yeah, he gave us a few things.” Al poked at his handset, reading off info. “Current date is Friday January 30, 2015. You own and operate the antiques store downstairs, have done since 1992.”

“Antiques? I don’t know anything about antiques. I can barely remember major events in history, let alone details about furniture and vases.” The holes poked in his memory were a very inconvenient side-effect of the leaping process, one which he cursed continuously.

“Ah, just make it up,” Al said with a scoff. “Usually it’s people who’ve got more cash than sense buying this stuff. Just tell ‘em it belonged to Louis XIV, they’ll buy anything. My second wife was like that. We had a lot of French ‘antiques’ that had ‘Made in China’ stamped somewhere on them.” He looked at his handheld again. “You own the shop with your son, Henry.”

“Henry. Thank god he’s finally got a name.”

Sam’s stomach rumbled, making needs known, and Sam decided that breakfast wasn’t going to wait. Doing up the last of the buttons on his shirt, Sam made for the bedroom door and cracked it, taking a peek into the hallway. The apartment was still quiet—Henry must still be asleep. Perfect. He slipped out into the hall and Al followed him, drifting through the wall without so much as an eye blink. Even after years of this routine, Sam still found his ghostly trick a little disturbing.

The kitchen was well stocked, and Sam rooted through cupboards as Al nattered on to him, finally opting to make coffee and toast, as cooking a full breakfast in an unfamiliar kitchen was going to draw more attention to his memory gaps than was an easy task.

“Ziggy is completely grinding to a standstill on Henry. Can’t seem to find anything concrete, but Gooshie isn’t sure if she’s not finding anything, or doing this on purpose. Anyway, Abe gave us a little bit we can use. Henry’s thirty-five; mom’s Maureen Morgan, but she cut out when Henry was a kid, so it’s been just him and Abe. Henry did boarding school in London, then Oxford University, hence the accent, but he’s been living with Abe for the past five years. He works as a medical examiner for the county.”

“Hm, that’s weird.” Sam said, measuring coffee grounds into a french press he’d found on the counter and setting water to boil. “I thought he was NYPD. He’s got sweats with the logo.”

“Well, he works with them on crime scenes and autopsies and stuff. Cuts open dead people for a living.” Al gave an exaggerated shudder. “Gives me the willies thinking about it.”

“Any insight on what was up with last night?” Sam popped bread into the toaster, thick-cut sourdough that made his mouth water just looking at it, and pushed down the lever. “Middle of the night swims?”

“Yeah, poor guy. He’s—“

“Were you talking to yourself?”

Both Sam and Al spun around to see Henry standing in the hallway entrance, frowning at Sam as he worked one shirt cuff button into its hole. He was already dressed, dress pants and a dark blue sweater vest over a cream shirt, complete with a wine-red tie perfectly knotted. No such thing as casual Fridays for Henry.

“Good morning! Just… you know, going over my list of things to do today.” Sam

“Ah,” was all Henry said.

The kettle whistled, and Sam reached for it, focusing on pouring the water into the waiting french press.

“Very smooth,” Al said as Sam met his eye when turning past him, and Sam rolled his eyes at him, his back to Henry.

Henry was giving him a side-eye as he circled the kitchen island, and Sam took his bite of toast, trying not to look bothered by Henry’s attention. He was getting the feeling these two had a rigid routine he was mucking with. Sure enough, Henry stopped in the middle of the kitchen looking around with a stymied expression, then gave Abe an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t make assumptions about breakfast, especially after a late night. I could pick something up from the deli?”

“Sounds like Abe’s the cook,” Al said, a sour note in his voice. Sam could hear the disapproval—he was definitely of the opinion that kids should care for their elders. “I’ll make sure to ask about their daily routine when I get back.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, using the word to address both Henry and Al. He’d gotten good over the years at carrying on two conversations at once. “But no, it’s fine,” Sam said, waving his toast. “This is all I need.”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Henry said, with the tone that parents reserved for children who should know better. He accepted the cup of coffee that Sam slid towards him and went to the table, grabbing up a medical magazine that was sitting on the corner of the counter before he slid into a seat at the table. “At your age, you should know better than to skip a proper balanced meal.”

“Er, yeah. Won’t make it a habit.”

Al was prowling around the kitchen, and he circled behind Henry, who had flipped open his magazine to scan the contents, blissfully unaware of the invisible holographic admiral eyeing him like a jigsaw puzzle. Al remained invisible to all but children, animals, the mentally disturbed, and those near death, and he made the most of his freedom to do as he pleased.

“You never can tell by looking at someone what goes on in their head,” Al said, leaning over to look at Henry’s face as Henry took a sip of his coffee and settled into his article. He straightened up and addressed Sam with a sad shake of his head. “Henry here is a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Gets these sleepwalking episodes—takes off all his clothes and goes for a jump in the river. Calls Abe to come get him, either from the river or from lockup when he gets thrown in there for public nudity. Abe says you gotta check in with him about it after he’s had an episode, make sure he goes to see his therapist today, a Dr. Farber. He doesn’t drive, so you’ve got to take him. Sounds like it’s not popular with Henry, but he’s going to lose his job if he doesn’t do these mandated sessions, so he has to.”

“Hm,” Sam said by way of acknowledgement, and Henry looked up at the noise as though Sam had called him. “Uh, so, Henry, what’s your schedule today?”

Henry heaved a sigh and leaned back in his chair, laying the magazine down on the tabletop.

“Right back at tying up the Lyman mob hit case with Detective Martinez. You’d think testifying would have been the end of it, but there are endless reports to be submitted as part of serving as an expert witness. I was there until well past midnight last night, and still there’s more to do.” He made a face. “I hate going to court. I should have known it would eventually happen that I’d be forced into it rather than being able to shunt it off to Lucas or another assistant medical examiner. But, Jason Lyman is safely behind bars where he should be. He’ll stay there for a very long time.”

Sam made a vaguely interested noise, and Henry returned to his coffee and magazine, idly flipping to another page. He wondered how to broach the subject of the therapy appointment without sounding too much like a pushy nag.

Al, still stationed at Henry’s side, was stabbing at his handlink. It squealed and he smacked it a few times, then made a satisfied cry.

“Finally, some actual information! Jason Lyman, enforcer for an organized crime family involved in drug smuggling. Linked to twenty other deaths before this one, which were ruled suicides despite heavy suspicion that they were hits. Court records say a Dr. Morgan was an expert witness at Lyman's trial, and two detectives, Hanson and Martinez, were key in his conviction.”

The phone rang, a loud jangling noise from an old-fashioned receiver on a telephone table in the living room. Henry looked up at the noise, and closed the magazine with a frown.

“Rather early for a call.”

Al wandered over to Sam, still looking at his handlink, as Henry went to answer the phone. Sam made himself look as absorbed in eating toast and drinking coffee as a man could while Al continued reading to him. From the living room, he heard the buzz of Henry’s voice as he took the call.

“Eventually arrested and convicted of the death of one Sameer Patil, DEA administrative officer, and…” Al trailed off, and then looked up at Sam urgently. “Oh, no. Sam, this isn’t good.”

“I’m afraid I have to dash, Abe.” Henry reappeared from the living room as he strode past the kitchen and towards the stairs. He grabbed up a scarf and overcoat, throwing both on as he spoke, his words laced with the same urgency apparent in the jerky haste of his motions. “There’s been a complication in the case. Jo is swinging around to pick me up immediately.”

“What’s going on?” Sam threw down the toast on the plate and came around the counter, hurrying after Henry. “Hey, wait up. What’s happening? I thought your case was done except for paperwork?”

“It appears Mr. Lyman and his associates were not content with the court’s decision. Two guards were shot last night as he was transferred to prison, and he escaped.” Henry knotted his scarf around his neck with artful flair.

“Where are you going?” Sam asked.

“To the precinct. Jo has arranged for a police officer to watch the shop. Stay here until we know what’s going on.” He paused, turning worried eyes on Abe. “She said there’s been a message delivered—threats of retribution.”

“More than a threat, Sam,” Al cut in, circling around behind Henry so that he could look at Sam as he spoke over Henry’s shoulder. “Ziggy finally coughed up a prediction. There’s an 80% chance that Henry here is going to die sometime in the next two days, along with a detective from the case. Jo Martinez.”

“I’ll call when I know more,” Henry said over the end of Al’s words. He wrapped Sam in a fierce hug. “Please, stay inside for now.”

“Okay, sure.” He returned the hug, and then Henry pulled back and finished buttoning his coat. “I guess I’ll give the clinic a call and get your appointment pushed back.”

“What appointment?” Henry said absentmindedly, his thoughts clearly already racing off to the work ahead of him.

“Your therapist. Dr. Farber?”

Henry froze, then looked up at Abe with mouth hanging open.

“I’m sorry?” he said. “What did you say?”

“Dr. Farber? You’re supposed to go after…” he trailed off as Henry closed his mouth, visibly ashen. “After you, uh, go swimming?”

“Sam,” Al said, waving his hands in a desperate chopping motion. “I think maybe you should stop talking.”

“Abe, what are you talking about?” Henry asked, cocking his head to the side as he peered at him cautiously. “We haven’t heard from Adam since he murdered Julian Glasser. I don’t understand, did he—“

A loud buzzer sounded through the apartment signalling someone at the door downstairs, and Henry looked down the stairs before turning back to Sam. He took an urgent step towards Sam, and the intensity in his expression was such that Sam had to forcibly stop himself from backing away from him.

“Did Adam contact you again?”

“No—no, he didn’t,” Sam stuttered.

The door buzzer sounded again. Henry made a frustrated noise, looking down the stairs again and then back to Sam. He brandished a finger at him.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but when I get back, you are going to explain yourself. Please, don’t go out today.”

“Okay, okay, I promise.”

Henry was clearly unhappy but apparently willing to take it. The buzzer rang again, and this time Henry turned and dashed down the stairs.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can! Don’t go out!” he called back, and in a flash was gone.

Sam, heart pounding and back prickling with cold sweat, went back to the kitchen and gulped down the rest of his coffee.

“Well, at least we’ve got a lead on what I’m doing here,” he said to Al. “I’m going to have to save Henry’s life.”

Al was storming around in a fury, swearing at his little handheld device as it squalled back at him with a stream of electronic bleats.

“I’m not so sure about that. Ziggy’s got all the information we’ve fed into her, plus whatever history she’s managed to dig up, but nothing she’s spitting out is concrete. As far as we can tell, there’s a 50% chance you’re here to make sure Henry lives.” He sighed, hand dropping to his side. “And a 50% chance you’re here to make sure he dies.”

Sam leaned on the counter, taking that in.

“That’s—that’s a pretty black and white difference, there.”

“Yeah, I know,” Al said, grimacing. He lifted a hand as though to pat Sam on the back, then seemed to remember that he couldn’t touch him—same as anything else in this environment, it was all a holographic projection and Al’s hand would pass right through him. “I’ll take a look and see what I can get out of the geeks back at the Project, and let you know. Okay?”

“Sure.” The door sprang into existence behind Al, and Sam called out to him. “Hey, can you check in with Abe about this therapist thing? I’m getting the feeling we might not have the right information there.”

“Oh, trust me, Abe and I are going to have a good chat about that,” Al said, teeth grinding. “A long one. I don’t like being dicked around.”

He disappeared through the door, which closed behind him with a snap.

Sam looked around the apartment he was trapped in for the day. Maybe Abe had some books on antiques around here. He could study up, just in case he did end up downstairs trying to sell furniture.

Or, he could sneak out of here and keep an eye on Henry. ‘Within the next two days’ could mean two hours from now as much as 48 hours from now, and if he was going to do anything about it he would have to be close to Henry. The trick would be finding out where he went, as it could be any precinct in New York. He had Detective Jo Martinez’ name, which gave him a starting place for his search. Find where she worked, find where Henry had gone.

Sam picked up the telephone receiver and dialled for the operator.


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as Admiral Al entered the Waiting Room, Abe knew that his plan had worked. With his gaudy shiny orange suit and flashy shirt beneath, Al looked like a pissed off bird-of-paradise. Abe sat on the table and folded his arms, smug that the only gambit available to him had already payed off.

“Who is Adam?” Al asked. All his friendly cajoling was gone, and out had come the proper naval interrogator.

It wasn’t the bark that got Abe, though. He’d spent his time as a grunt being shouted at by irate sergeants, done his time being shot at in the Vietnam jungle, and had a lifetime of dealing with Henry and his shenanigans.  He’d managed to stave off terror for the last however many hours he’d been here, managed to keep it together, but mention of the unpredictable immortal who’d seen fit to torture Henry for his own amusement—that stabbed a hole through Abe's self-control.

“What happened? Did he show up again?” Abe hopped off the table, stomach uneasy with the rush of nerves. He strode up to Al, brandishing a finger and nearly poking him in the face. Al didn’t flinch, even though in this borrowed body Abe had a good four or five inches on him. “You put me back where I belong, right now. Tell that bastard who’s stolen my body that I don’t care where he goes, so long as he’s out of there!”

“Who is Adam?” Al repeated, emphasizing each word carefully.

“He’s dangerous, is who he is!”

Al sounded like a chugging steam engine as he clamped his mouth shut and his breath rushed through his nose, his glower dark and furious. With a very obvious effort he rolled his shoulders and head, then delicately took hold of Abe’s wagging fingers and directed it to the side away from his face.

“Adam’s not around, as far as we know. Though thanks to your ‘helpful’ information about Dr. Farber, Henry sure seemed to think he is. He got pretty upset about the whole thing.”

Oh. Now that made some sense, given what Abe had fed them. A mention of Dr. Farber would have set Henry in a tizzy. Only question was whether it had been enough to point Henry’s thoughts in the right direction that Abe was not Abe at all, but an imposter.

“What happened?”

“Not a lot—Henry rushed off to meet a Detective Jo Martinez. One of their cases went to hell. The name Jason Lyman mean anything to you?”

“Yeah, guy they put away for a mob hit. Henry testified at his trial about a week ago.”

Henry had been fussing for weeks about the forensic evidence on the electrocution that had been made to look like a suicide. In reality, the victim had been bound to the breaker panel in the basement of his house while the electricity was off. It had then been turned back on, like someone flipping the switch on an electric chair. Thanks to Henry’s spotting the signs of bonds on the victim’s wrists and feet, plus Jo’s careful research through the power company about a series of odd surges and cuts to the neighbourhood power grid, they’d been able to declare it murder. Tracking it back to Lyman then came down to the trace evidence.

All of it was business as usual for Henry, who’d gotten himself all caught up in the investigations of his cases since he’d had the lovely Jo Martinez to pal around with. What had got him all fired up was being called as an expert witness.

Trial proceedings meant that Henry’s name and personal information would be entered into public record. Though Henry couldn’t opt out of society entirely, he tried to keep his footprint as small as possible. Usually he dodged the calls to court by shuffling the responsibility off to his colleagues, but the magnitude of this case meant calling him in, and he hadn’t been able to wiggle out of it.

“The last time I was in court, it was 1957,” Henry had said as he plucked his tie knot loose and worked at retying it. It had been fine before, but Abe had said nothing, letting Henry work out his nerves however he liked.

“Yeah, I know, testifying against your own murderer when you were shot in that bank heist,” Abe had said. “I remember. Don’t worry. You give your testimony, Lyman gets put away for good. It’s worth it.”

Henry had accepted the reassurance and, though he had been a nervous wreck the night after, drinking a few more glasses of wine than he’d normally allow for before tottering off to bed, the trial had all gone according to plan. So Abe had thought, anyway.

“Lyman’s gotten loose, and our best guess is that he’s coming after Henry.” Al scratched his chin, eyeing Abe, and he sighed. “I know you’re not happy about this, but you’ve gotta be straight with us or we’re not going to be able to help him. Enough of the bull.”

“You think _you’ve_ had enough of the bull?” Abe flung his arms wide to encompass the softly lit white, featureless room they’d locked him in. “Give me a break! Put me back, let us deal with it. Me and Henry have handled worse than Lyman, so you and your buddy Sam can butt out, okay? We don’t need your help.”

“You’ve got it, whether you want it or not,” Al said. There was a slack fatigue to his attitude that felt familiar, something he’d seen on Henry’s face more than once, a particular world-weary air that spoke of too many burdens collected. “I didn’t want to get into this, but here’s the bottom line: if Sam doesn’t complete his mission, he doesn’t leap out of your body. He’s stuck there. Meaning you’re stuck here. So, for you to get home, Sam has to fix what’s gone wrong. That’s going to be a hell of a lot easier if you _help_ us.”

He really wanted to call Admiral Al a liar, but for the first time in all these chats they’d had, Abe smelled honesty. Up until now he’d been handled with care, managed and manipulated, but this had the end-of-night chips down feel to it.

“Are you saying I’ll be stuck like this?” he looked down at his unfamiliar body, then back to Al, who had pity coming off him in clouds like the damned cigar smoke.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“That’s a pretty crappy system, if you don’t mind me saying,” Abe said, his voice starting to shake a little. He was way too old for this.

“Tell me about it. The Project has a few flaws, one of which is trying to figure out how to get Dr. Beckett home. If we can manage to keep him moving, we increase our chances of getting him home. If it helps, he’s always making things better. Little bits and pieces of history that have gone wrong, all tidied up. He’s not trying to hurt anyone.”

Abe didn’t want to believe any of it, but being ripped from his own body and shoved in someone else’s was really working wonders for helping break down the barriers of doubt.

Helping them to help himself. Give them information so Sam could better impersonate Abe, and therefore help Henry, and thereby get Abe home. All of it meant compromising the biggest secret he’d held his entire life. Helping someone impersonate himself would require giving up too much of Henry’s confidence.

Would it really be necessary, though? Not that he was callous to Henry’s pain and suffering, but getting shot wasn’t even going to rate in the thousands of things that had happened to Henry in his life.

“Henry’s tougher than you think,” Abe said. He was emotionally spent and it was sapping his energy, which had seemed youthfully boundless until now. He sat down on the table in the centre of the room. “He’ll be okay. I know your computer or whatever says he might get shot, but I know he’ll be fine. Your guy should just stay out of the way.”

“What about the detectives that work with your son?”

“He’s not—“ Abe shut his mouth, slapping a hand over his eyes and rubbing at them and the throbbing headache that was forming behind them, then clued into the rest of Al’s question. He dropped his hand and looked up. “What do you mean, ‘the detectives?’ What about them?”

“At least one of them is killed at the same time as Henry. Our best guess is that it’s Detective Martinez.”

Henry would bounce back, but Jo sure wouldn’t. Abe groaned in frustration, glaring at the featureless wall as though it would produce an answer. Jo’s life, or Henry’s secret? What the hell was he supposed to do? What was the right thing to do?

He was going to get stuck here, wasn’t he? Some idiot physicist from the future was going to live out his years in Abe’s creaky old body, and Henry was going to either think Abe had lost his mind, or figure it out and realize that Abe was gone.

Henry would probably try to find him. Maybe he was already looking. Maybe somewhere out there, Henry was looking for him, and he was close. Henry would be alive whenever this was, and maybe…

His head hurt thinking about it all.

“Abe—“

“I need a mirror. Give me a mirror.”

“It’s not a good idea. We used to have a mirror in here, but after three were smashed by Waiting Room guests, we stopped replacing them.”

“I don’t care if it’s a good idea, I want a mirror. I wanna look this son of a bitch who took my place in the eye.”

There was another minute of silent stand-off, but Al eventually gave a jerky nod and went to fetch one. He came back with a small makeup compact and handed it over without a word.

The effect was more jarring than he’d thought it would be, even as he steeled himself for it. Abe made a few faces, just to check if the face he was seeing was actually attached to him. The features responded with the ridiculous twisted mouth movements he performed. Yes, it was him. Or, not him. The him that might be him for a long time, if things went to pot in the next few days.

This was really happening, wasn’t it?

With shaking fingers, he clipped the compact closed and handed it back to Al.

“Look, I’ll try to help,” he said, “but our life is a little complicated—I can’t exactly go into all the details. But if there’s something you need to know, maybe I can… I dunno. I can try.”

Al softened and patted him on the back, guiding him over to the table again to sit on it.

“Thanks. Why don’t we start with where Henry works?”

“That much I can do.”

***

Sam pushed his way through the doors of the 11th Precinct an hour later, hoping to find the Homicide department without attracting too much attention to himself. However, it turned out that in 2015, sneaking into a police department wasn’t something people could just do willy-nilly.

The sergeant manning the intake desk stopped him with a raised hand when he was about to walk past.

“Name and purpose of visit,” he said with the bored, droning tone of someone who repeated the same phrase every day. When Sam delayed his answer, he turned his eyes from the computer screen towards him with a hint of suspicion, which jogged Sam into action.

“Right, right. Abe Morgan. I’m here to see…” He scratched his head, thinking of any other excuse he could use, and then gave up on any thoughts of stealth in favour of sticking close to Henry. “I’m here to see Detective Martinez.”

“Ok. I’ll call up to her.”

“I could just go up, no need to—“

“Go have a seat, sir.”

Sam was directed to a line of chairs against the wall to wait. Apparently his harmless old geezer routine wasn’t going to work, and he sat in the uncomfortable cheap chair fidgeting with nervousness.

He hated this part, the flailing in the darkness to find out what was going on in this new life he’d leapt into. When he’d been a younger man, long before Project Quantum Leap had been a twinkle in his eye, he’d been so easily embarrassed and flustered, quick to blush and stutter. Now, life was nothing but a string of blunders and embarrassment. He was constantly in situations with people looking at him like he’d grown two extra heads or yelling at him for messing up. If it wasn’t missing information from his host’s life, it was the damned swiss cheese holes in his previously eidetic memory caused by the leaping process, leaving him completely dependent on the information Al brought from Ziggy to guide him.

If he had to find a bright side in all of it, at least he wasn’t so easily embarrassed or flustered anymore.

He was going to be drawing on that hard-won skill shortly, because Henry was striding across the precinct lobby at full steam, with a dark-haired woman trailing behind him at a near jog to keep up with his frantic pace. Sam stood up to meet them.

“Abraham! What are you doing here?” Henry hissed. He hooked a hand around his arm to tug him away from the precinct doors into a recessed nook in the lobby. “I told you very specifically to stay home!”

He sounded like an irate, worried father censuring his wayward child, and Sam wondered how Abe put up with Henry and his overbearing concern.

“Sorry,” he said. He really was short on excuses here. “I guess I was worried about you.”

A puzzled expression passed over Henry’s face, and he released Abe’s arm. The woman, must have been Jo Martinez, stepped a little closer to them.

“Hey, Abe. Henry’s right, you should stay home—I’ve got a police detail headed over there right now, you should be where they can keep an eye on you. In fact, that’s where _both_ of you should be right now.”

Henry’s annoyed eye-roll indicated this was an unresolved conversation, and he shook his head vehemently.

“No. Jo, I’ve told you, I can help. Let me have another look at the note, see if I can run some forensic tests on it to find some information on where it came from and how it was delivered. We can track Lyman down if we can draw some information from it.”

“What note? What happened?” Sam cut in, and the two of them turned towards him with a little jolt of surprise, as though they’d just remembered he was there.

Henry hesitated before he tipped his head towards Detective Martinez.

“Jo received a note from Lyman. A very short, direct threat to everyone involved with his conviction.”

“With the cheery addition of ‘You’re next,’” Jo added, looking far more annoyed than afraid. “Straight to the point, our guy.”

“Next?” Sam repeated. “Who was first?”

Henry’s eyes widened, and he imperceptibly shook his head in an urgent ‘no,’ while at the same time Jo shrugged, not noticing Henry’s gesture towards Sam.

“That’s just it, we don’t know. Which means there’s someone out there he’s gone after. We’ve got to track down everyone involved with the case and the prosecution, see if there’s anyone who’s unaccounted for as of last night when he escaped.” She shifted and pointed back towards the elevators. “Henry, I’m going to grab some of my stuff, and then we can head out. I can run you and Abe home before I head over to the DA’s office to get their information.”

“Jo, please, I—“

“I’m taking you home, Henry,” she said firmly, shutting down Henry’s strident protest, and turned to go.

She certainly kept Henry in line, Sam thought, and he was beginning to appreciate that doing so wasn’t an easy job.

The moment she was out of sight, Henry turned back to Sam and pulled him farther into the corner, out of earshot of anyone. He bowed his head close, speaking in a harsh whisper.

“Obviously Lyman thinks he killed me after he hit me with his car in the middle of the night, and he is going after Jo now. If and when he finds out I’m alive, who knows what he’ll do. Please don’t draw any further attention to it. I’ve already failed to steer Jo away from focusing on that rather than the threat to her life!”

“You were hit by a car?” Sam gaped at Henry, then scanned him over, looking for signs of damage. Bruising, wounds, scrapes—nothing was visible on his face or neck. He’d seen a hell of a lot more of Henry last night, but he’d been disoriented from the leap and couldn’t say for sure he’d been okay. He remembered a big scar on his chest, but nothing else was coming to mind. “I didn’t—we didn’t even go to the hospital. If you were hit by a car, we should take you to the hospital!”

“A _hospital_?” Henry’s confusion was evident, and he pulled back from Sam.

“You might feel okay now, but sometimes the effects hit you later. We should get you checked out, just to be sure.”

His concern went unnoticed as Henry lapsed into silence. His eyes unfocused as though he was lost in thought, and then snapped back to Sam. Henry’s inspection made him feel like he was looking right through Abe’s eyes and seeing Sam behind them.

“I’m fine,” Henry said. “Quite fine. And what about you? How are you feeling this morning?”

“I wasn’t the one run down by a car last night,” Sam said.

“Abe, is this some kind of joke? If it is, I am truly unamused.”

Great, Henry was one of those people who was going to fight the suggestion that he might need help of any kind.

“Come on, it’ll be a quick check-up, just to be sure.”

Henry folded his arms and covered his mouth with one hand, inspecting Sam like a chess player contemplating his next move. Sam shifted on his feet as they stood facing each other silently. The longer Henry stood statue-still, only his eyes moving as he looked at Sam, the more nervous he became.

Finally Sam couldn’t stand it any longer and he took a step back, laughing weakly. Somewhere along the way here he’d messed up, and badly. Maybe the car had actually missed Henry, or Abe had taken Henry to the hospital already before the whole sleepwalking incident. Time to make a strategic retreat and regroup as soon as Al came back.

“You know what, maybe I will head home—I can grab a taxi, it’s no big deal. I just stopped in to make sure you were doing okay, you know?”

Henry moved forward and grabbed Sam by the wrist. His hold was gentle but firm.

“Abraham, look at me. Look in my eyes.”

“Why?”

“Humour me.”

Sam did as asked, and Henry came close and peered in Sam’s face, first one eye, then the next. He made a low, displeased noise, then backed off again.

“Show me your teeth,” he said.

“What?”

Henry huffed impatiently and then demonstrated what he wanted, baring his teeth at Sam in a mock-grin.

“Like that—show me your teeth.”

Sam obediently copied him and tried not to pull away as Henry moved in close again and peered at him, eyebrows making a dark and severe line over his sharp eyes as he studied Sam’s mouth.

“Fine. Now put your arms out like this, palms up.”

He demonstrated again, arms outstretched wide, and Sam copied him. They were drawing a few stares now from passersby in the lobby, and Sam gave them what he hoped was a reassuring smile, while Henry ignored them completely. Henry stepped back and looked back and forth, as though comparing the two sides.

“Resist me when I push.”

Sam let him pull at each hand, pushing back at the force to keep his arms outstretched and level.

“Looks fine,” Henry said to himself. “You can put them down now.” He frowned as he stepped forward and put his hands to Sam’s face, gently tilting it forward and then to the sides, looking him carefully over, then released him and took a step back. “Say, ‘never cry over spilt milk,’ for me.”

 _He’s checking me for a stroke,_ Sam realized.

Sam was sweating. He really needed Al back with some information, and now. He’d ended up in a few padded white rooms thanks to mis-steps in his leaps, and he really didn’t want to deal with that again.

“Abe,” the man started, and Sam quickly interrupted him.

“‘Never cry over spilt milk,’” Sam repeated, clearly and without the slurring that would have indicated a stroke or any other neurological complications. “I’m fine. See? Totally fine. I was worried about you, that’s all. I mean, people don’t usually get hit by a car and walk away totally fine. Pays to be cautious.”

Henry’s expression lapsed into deep distress. He cleared his throat a few times as though collecting himself and took Sam by both shoulders, bowing his head close.

“Who am I?” he asked.

“Henry,” he said. “You’re Henry.”

“Yes, I am,” he agreed with a calm and even tone, even though there was a hint of panic in his expression. He lowered his voice to a bare whisper, and leaned close to Abe. “Who am I to you, Abe? The truth.”

“You’re—“ Sam licked his lips, trying to figure out if there was an easy way out of this. Turning and running didn’t seem like a good option, and he chuckled uneasily, fervently wishing he could call for Al just by thinking his name really hard. “You’re my son?”

Henry’s hands clenched on his shoulders, and he closed his eyes as though in pain. Sam patted one of his forearms.

“Calm down, Henry. It was a long night, we’re both just tired.”

Henry opened his eyes and smiled sadly as he looked at Sam.

“Yes, of course. But I do believe we’ll take that trip to the hospital after all.”

Oh, no. The gentle, placating tone of his voice was all too familiar. This was headed for psych ward territory if Sam didn’t do something quick. He took a few steps backwards, away from Henry.

“I dunno, seems like you’re doing fine, like you said. It can wait. I don’t want to trouble you guys, sounds like you’re really busy.”

Henry darted around to keep him from escaping, blocking the route to the exit.

“No—Abe, we should—“

“Hey guys, I’m ready to go.” Jo was back, coat on and keys twirling around her finger, and she glanced between them. “Everything okay?”

“Yes. Though I shall go home with Abe to be on the safe side,” Henry said in an overly calm, reasonable tone. “If you’re still willing to drop us off.”

“Yeah. I’m already running a half hour late, but I’ll give them the heads up at the DA’s office to let them know,” Jo said. She looked between them again, obviously picking up that something was wrong, but she didn’t pursue it. “Ok, my car’s out front.”

Henry put a guiding hand on Sam’s shoulder as they left the precinct, and Sam gulped down his uneasiness over what was going to happen when they did reach the apartment.

Just as they pushed through the doors and out onto the busy sidewalk packed with morning rush-hour pedestrians, a car exploded halfway down the block.

All three of them instinctively cringed and ducked low as the fireball rocketed upward. Screams, the smashing of windows, the rush of flames, all roared up. Jo drew her weapon, and Henry pushed Abe back towards the door, setting himself as a shield between Abe and the street, and all three of them stared at the flaming, destroyed hulk of the car in disbelief.

“That’s my car,” Jo gasped. “That’s my car. If we weren’t running late—”

“—We’d have been in there,” Henry finished. “Jo, this is out of hand. You need to turn the legwork of this case over to another detective, you have to go somewhere safe.”

“I told you, no,” Jo said, scanning the street carefully. People were already on their cell phones calling emergency services. “If he’s busy going after me, at least we know where his focus is, and we’ve got a better chance of catching him.”

“What, you plan to use yourself as bait? Absolutely not! I’m on his list too, I can—”

The two of them settled into an argument, and Sam shrunk back against the wall, jostled to the side as police flooded from the precinct to address the situation. This was all going to hell in a handbasket pretty damned fast.

The question was, did he just succeed or fail at his mission? Was he supposed to have saved Henry’s life or ensured his death? Was Jo safe now?

Sam held his breath, waiting for the leap, but there was nothing. Was this it? Was he stuck here now?

“Al, where the hell are you?” Sam whispered to himself.


	4. Chapter 4

They reached the shop and Sam scampered up the apartment stairs—or, as close to a scamper as Abe’s older frame would allow him—while Henry hung back to speak with Jo, who was busy coordinating with the police detail watching the shop.

As he hit the top stair, he heard the familiar sound of the Imaging Room door opening. Al appeared through it, emerging from the refrigerator in the kitchen. It snapped shut behind him.

“About damned time!” Sam cried, then checked himself, lowering his voice lest Henry overheard. “Al, I am sunk here. There was an attempt on Jo Martinez’ life.“

“Yeah, I know. Hell of a lot of bystanders injured from the explosion, but no deaths. Ziggy spotted it, that’s why I high-tailed it back here.” The handlink squealed as Al poked at it. “I was with Abe trying to get some straight answers out of him, which is about as easy as shaving a tiger.”

“Well, what did you find out?” Sam wiped at his damp brow, trying to calm himself.

“Henry’s not your son, that much I got. Who he is exactly, Abe won’t say, but he did say he’s not your son.”

“No kidding,” Sam said bitterly. “We’ve already burned that particular bridge. He thinks I’ve lost it.”

“Damn,” Al said with a sigh. “Sorry, Sam. Don’t worry, we’re going to get you through this.”

“So—so I’ve still got a chance, here? What did Ziggy say? My being there at the precinct definitely delayed them enough that they missed the explosion, but obviously I haven’t leapt and I wasn’t sure if…”

“No, this wasn’t it. Ziggy still says you’re supposed to be here and that we’re still in the 48 hour window in which Henry’s going to die. Only thing is…” He looked like he was choking on the words. “This time, there’s a 87% chance Abe’s going to die too.”

“What? Oh, come on, that’s not fair!” Sam cried, throwing his hands in the air. He paced around the living room, cursing the cluttered space as he barked his shins on a low coffee table. “Henry’s about two steps from carting me off to the hospital because he thinks I’ve lost my mind, I have no idea how to track down the hitman who’s gunning for us, and—“

“Sam, shush!” Al said loudly, flapping his hands at Sam to quiet him. He’d moved to the top of the stairs and was peering down it. “Henry’s coming up.”

Sam groaned quietly, wishing he’d taken the opportunity to go hide in Abe’s bedroom to try and stall the inevitable.

Henry’s footsteps pounded up the stairs as he called out.

“Abe? Abraham?” He scanned around, then with palpable relief, spotted him. “There you are.”

“Hiya, Henry,” he said miserably.

It would have been a lot easier if Henry were angry, but he was so obviously distressed that guilt overwhelmed Sam.

The whole point of Project Quantum Leap was to make things better. He was doing his best, leaping through time to fix all these things gone wrong, but it wasn’t all good. He caused fights, worried people, blundered into arguments and emotional minefields. He broke promises, broke confidences, broke hearts. In the end, he told himself, he was doing more good than ill.

That was harder to believe when facing down Henry and his poor attempts at keeping his worry and fear for Abe in check.

Henry had a black leather satchel in hand, and he placed it on the living room table. He cracked it open and pulled out a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff.

“Have a seat.”

Sam shot Al a glance, and Al shrugged.

“Might as well. At least if you’re with Henry, you can keep an eye on him. Stall for time until we can narrow down the window where Henry, Abe, and Jo are killed.”

 _Thanks, big help there,_ Sam thought, but he let Henry direct him to the couch.

Henry pushed up Sam’s sleeve and wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm, taking his readings with silent concentration, his hands moving with the quick, confident movements of a skilled doctor. Al came to stand behind Henry and started filling him in while Henry continued taking his readings.

“So I can’t get too much useful info out of Abe. Found out where Henry works, but looks like you managed to get him home again, so that’s fine. Dr. Farber was a setup, apparently that’s an old case Henry worked—he had a stalker named Adam who was posing as his therapist. Nasty stuff. Fortunately he seems to have wandered off for now, so let’s just hope he stays that way.”

“Hm,” Sam hummed as an acknowledgement. Henry had the stethoscope in his ears and missed it, focused on the dial on the blood pressure cuff.

“He says he and Henry are ‘like family, and leave it at that.’ That could mean Henry is his boyfriend and he’s reluctant to admit it,” Al said, then raised his eyebrows as he eyed Henry.

“Look at me, please,” Henry said to Sam, unaware of Al’s continuing monologue. He flicked on a small light, examining Sam’s pupil reaction.

It afforded Sam the opportunity to study Henry’s face, the lines drawn from stress and weariness making him look older. No, he wasn’t getting the boyfriend feeling here. Close, but not that kind of close.

Al was taking full advantage of his opportunity to soapbox on without interruption, as Henry went through the motions of a general physical checkup.

“The whole timeline here is a mess, and I’m talking 20-car freeway pile-up mess. We can’t tell what’s going on. Ziggy keeps locking on to a couple other Henry Morgans from different decades, one in the 50’s and one in the 80’s, and we have to keep shuffling her back to the right one. I know it’s a common name and all, but it’s weird, like she can’t keep them straight. It’s slowing us down on everything. Anyway, what we’ve got right now is that Henry dies, and his body is never found. Abe’s found dead in the apartment, and Jo is found dead the next day.”

“Hm,” Sam grunted again.

Henry pulled the stethoscope from his ears and settled them around his neck.

“All your vitals are normal. I’d like to draw some blood, run a few tests.” Henry leaned towards the table and rooted in the black bag.

“The guy is thorough, got to give him that,” Al muttered.

Sam shot him a glare for the unhelpful comment, and this time Henry picked up on his shifting attention.

“You’ve been talking to yourself, you keep looking at something, you’ve been behaving very oddly since last night…” Henry trailed off, swallowing hard. He took Abe’s hand. “We’ll go to the hospital, I can arrange for an MRI. Auditory and visual hallucinations, personality change, memory troubles—”

“I’m fine. It’s an off day,” Sam said, trying to shrug off the concern, and he pulled his hand from Henry’s grip as he stood. “Right? The whole river thing, and then this escaped convict? Kind of puts a person out of sorts. I don’t need a hospital, I promise.”

“You have profound memory loss!” Henry stood as well, following him.

“Aw, come on, it’s not that bad,” Sam tried. He was getting desperate and having a hard time keeping himself under control. If Henry took him to the hospital, odds were good he wasn’t coming out, and then how was he supposed to help anything?

“Then tell me who I am.”

Sam groaned aloud, shooting a sideways look at Al for help.

“I’ve tried and tried to get it out of Abe,” Al said, hands spread wide. “Verbena’s had no luck at all. Hell, I even sent Tina in there to see if he’d talk to a pretty face, but nothing. I don’t know what it is, but it’s obviously important.”

“I know it’s important,” Sam hissed through clenched teeth.

“Yes, it is important,” Henry agreed. He took a few steps closer. “Relax, don’t try to push it. Look at me, look at my face.”

He was so kind, so gentle, and more than ever Sam wished he could just tell the truth. Having a secret he couldn’t share without being thought insane was maddening. Everything would make sense if he didn’t have to always, always lie.

Maybe, though, he could toe the line—just this once.

“Do you trust me?” Sam asked.

“Always.” Henry’s answer was solemn.

“Sam,” Al said, his tone heavy with warning.

“Then trust me now. I’m fine,” he said, ignoring Al. “You don’t need to worry. Once all this craziness is over, once Lyman’s dealt with, when everything is all settled, it’s going to be like none of this ever happened. Just… trust me.”

Henry pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side, his attention sharpening to a fine point, sifting through Sam’s words for their true meaning.

“Abe, what’s going on?”

“I—I can’t really explain it,” Sam said, stuttering and glancing at Al. “But if you can give me a couple days, I promise it’s all going to go back to normal, okay?”

“You’ve been guardian to my secret since you were fourteen. After all we’ve been through between then and now, you know you can tell me anything.”

 _“Since you were fourteen.”_ Like he’d been there himself, had known Abe at the age of fourteen.

Sam lapsed into confused silence, and then a series of Henry’s comments streaked through his mind rapid-fire—little off-handed statements he’d made that had slid by, either oddly out of context, or that Sam had misinterpreted.

_“After twenty-eight years, I am a little rusty.”_

_“Lyman thinks he killed me.”_

_“I’ll be sure next time to die at a more convenient hour.”_

_“You can’t keep a man from worrying about his son, no matter how old he is.”_

Sam had seen a lot of weird things, stuff that shouldn’t have existed in this world. He’d learned to trust his intuition. Even a scientist, working in fact rather than fancy, learned to follow his instincts, as they were often the intuitive spearhead of discovery. His instincts were leading him to a very strange place now, but hell, he was a man in someone else’s body. The world was stranger than anyone knew. Why not this?

“You’re… my dad?” Sam said hesitantly, taking a stab in the dark. Henry already thought he was nuts, it wasn’t like it was going to get worse.

Sure enough, Henry’s shoulders dropped a fraction, and he breathed a small sigh of relief. It wasn’t much, he was still tense and on guard, but he was obviously relieved to hear Sam say it.

“Yes, that’s right. Now Abe, please tell me what’s going on. What is wrong?”

 _Lots and lots,_ Sam thought.

“His _dad_? What the f—“ Al was cut off by a deafening squeal from his handlink. He stared at it. “I’ll be damned. One of the Henry Morgans that Ziggy’s been circling around—the one from the 50’s…” He looked up at Sam, and then to Henry, stupefied. “He had a son. Abraham Morgan.”

Henry was waiting patiently for his answer while Sam shook his head, jaw hanging practically to his chest, speechless.

“Congratulations, Sam,” Al said, scratching his head. “I think you just got a new award for weirdest leap yet.”

***

“You want to explain to me how a seventy-something has a dad who’s in his thirties?”

Al delivered the question as soon as he stepped foot into the Waiting Room that Abe had been pacing for the last few hours, and he didn’t look like he was leaving until he had a proper answer.

The urge to punch Al right on the nose was tempting. His right fist was practically itching with how much he wanted to do it.

When Abe had been twenty-five and midway through his stint at Berkeley, his mom and dad had come to visit for a weekend. He’d taken them out for lunch, sneaking out the door to the apartment he shared with three other guys and shutting it behind him as quickly as possible before his parents could catch a glimpse of the slovenly state of it. Not that either was fooled, by the way they’d both wrinkled their noses and exchanged a swift glance before smiling brightly and following him down Telegraph Avenue to experience Berkeley in all its hari krishna glory.

One of his roommates, an obnoxious guy named Gary who was way too square to be sharing his house with three hippies, an early riser who believed in morning calisthenics and jogging, passed him and his parents having lunch. Abe was forced to introduce them. Later on, he’d grilled Abe without mercy about how his dad could possibly be so young, and pushed him to tell the "real" truth about who Henry was.

Then, like now, backed into a corner without an answer ready to explain the facts, he’d been tempted to pop Gary one. No apologies, no explanations, just a good swift punch. It was _so_ tempting.

Al raised both hands in a peaceful gesture towards Abe. Abe had both his fists clenched and had taken a threatening step forward. Getting in a brawl wasn’t going to solve anything, so he turned away and tried to shake it off.

“Hey, all I care about is getting all this tied up so that you can go back to your life, and Sam can move on. All I need is the facts, Abe. Who is Henry, and what’s his deal?”

“All I’m gonna say is that if it comes down to it, you worry about Jo. Henry will be fine. And your guy—you tell him I’d like a live body to go back to, okay?”

Al’s handlink squealed angrily. Al looked at it, then swore loudly. He swivelled and dashed for the exit.

“You better hope Sam can figure this out without your help,” Al spat. “Or you and I are going to have a long time to get to know each other.” He ran out, and Abe was alone again.

He hoped so too. He’d sworn he’d go to the grave before he ever gave up Henry’s secret, but he hadn’t ever expected to take anyone else with him.


	5. Chapter 5

The shattering sound of glass broke Sam’s stand-off with Henry a fraction of a second before Henry staggered, as though someone had punched him in the shoulder from behind.

It took a full second to register what had happened before blood blossomed from an exit wound on his front.

“Not again,” Henry wheezed, and held a hand to his chest. “I hate being shot.”

He sank to his knees and Sam finally leapt to action, catching Henry as he went down.

“Henry! Oh my god—hang on, you’re gonna be okay.”

“Get out of here. Lyman—Abe, go.” Henry clutched at his shirt, then pushed at him.

Sam lay Henry down on the wooden floor and pressed his hands to the wound, leaning hard. Henry squirmed in pain, grimacing, but Sam didn’t let up the pressure. He craned his head briefly and then ducked back down behind the safety of the sofa that was blocking them from view. A bullet-hole at the centre of a spider-web of cracked glass marred one of the living room windows.

“Get out. Call Jo.”

“I’m not going to let you die, Henry,” Sam said.

To hell with Al and Ziggy and their fifty-fifty predictions. He wasn’t going to let Henry die and have that on his conscience for the rest of his life. With one hand he rooted in his sweater pocket, finding the cell phone that had been on the bedside table this morning. He dialled the number he’d gotten from the operator earlier today, thankful that while his memory was full of holes in some places, he could still retain short-term information with perfect clarity.

“Abe, please! I’ll call for help once I get to the river. Go, before Lyman comes.”

Sam ignored him. He clamped the cell phone between his ear and shoulder and resumed pressing on the wound. Two rings, and then Jo answered.

“Hey, Abe.”

“Jo! Henry’s been shot. We’re at the apartment.”

Jo cursed, and he heard her shout something indistinct away from the phone. After what felt like ages, she came back on.

“The police detail isn’t responding. We’re not far, we’ll be right there.”

The call disconnected, and Sam let the cell phone slide away, clattering to the ground beside Henry. He put as much weight as he could on the wound, hoping it would be enough to stem the bleeding, which was turning the blue of his sweater vest a deep wine colour, his dress shirt a bright red.

“Help is on the way,” Sam said, trying to keep his voice level and soothing. “Hang on, Henry.”

He’d never seen a person in so much pain look as irritated as Henry did. With a grunt of effort he slapped at Sam’s hands.

“Stop being foolish, Abraham! I’m going to die, let it happen. I’ll be fine, you’re only wasting time to get to safety. Get to the bedroom, barricade the door.”

“Henry…”

Henry glared up at him from the ground, still insistent despite his weakening grip and struggling breath. He was growing pale from loss of blood. Sam repositioned his hands, pressing harder to try and stop the seeping flow, and Henry’s eyes closed as he groaned.

Henry spoke of dying and death like it was a minor inconvenience, a normal occurrence after which he would spring from the river and continue on his merry way. He’d mentioned it several times. Was Henry delusional, or was this all real? Would the man under his hands die and… what, disappear? Reincarnate?

It wasn’t a risk he was willing to take. He shook his head.

“I can’t leave you.”

Henry rolled his eyes in frustration, then closed them, groaning. His rigid muscles were going loose beneath Sam’s hands as his strength flagged. He was losing too much blood, and Sam couldn’t stop it.

The door to the Imaging Chamber sprang to life, and Al’s holographic form charged out of the white light, skidding through the brown sofa sheltering them. He stopped on the opposite side of Henry’s prone form from Sam.

“Damn, what the hell happened?” Al cried, flailing his arms at Sam. “I leave you for ten minutes!”

“A lot can happen in ten minutes,” Henry mumbled.

Al paused in mid-rant at the unexpected answer.

“Sam, is he talking to me?” He bent over Henry, bracing his hands on his knees. “Hey, are you talking to me?”

Henry’s eyes flickered open slowly, and he looked blearily up at Al.

“Yes, hello?”

“Uh… hi?” Al waved a hand across Henry’s vision, and Henry’s eyes tracked the motion. “You can see me?”

“Yes,” Henry said. His gaze slid towards Sam and his brow creased. “You’re not Abe.”

This was not good. Al’s holographic form was keyed into Sam’s brainwaves, making him visible only to Sam. The same signal bounced back and in return Al saw Sam’s true face. No one else was supposed to be able to key into this frequency, but there were some exceptions. Children and animals could see Al, something to do with how their brains interpreted the world, the innocent simplicity of their understanding. There’d been a few other exceptions as well—people suffering from schizophrenia or other affective disorders that altered they way they perceived the world around them.

People close to death could also see Al in the few moments before the end came. If Henry could see Al now…

Al’s handlink squealed, and Al looked at it.

“Sam, Ziggy says you can’t let him die. If you do, Abe is definitely going to be found dead in this apartment by the police team. Tomorrow, Jo _and_ her partner are both going to die, shot at a crime scene that turns out to be a setup.”

“But he’s—“ Sam started, but Henry lifted a hand and snagged him by the front of the shirt, weak but determined. Sam let Henry tug him closer.

“Hate to interrupt,” Henry said, voice a pained whisper, each word forced but clear. “What have you done with Abe?”

“He’s safe. I’m just filling in temporarily.”

“Not... very reassuring. Where is he?”

“It’s complicated,” Sam hedged.

“It always is.” Henry shuddered again in pain.

On the edge of his hearing, channeled through the bones of the building to the apartment, Sam heard the jingle of a bell, and the sound of a door closing. Al twigged on it too and straightened up.

“The police? Jo said she was on her way,” Sam said.

“I’ll check. Ziggy, centre me on Jo!” Al stabbed a button, and he flickered out of existence.

Henry blinked slowly several times, his gaze glassy and his face pale.

“That’s new,” he said, tongue thick and clumsy.

“I’m really sorry about this.” The blood surrounding them was spreading into a wide puddle and creeping into the cracks of the polished wood floor. Henry wasn’t going to survive much longer at this rate. “Hang on, Henry, you’re…”

Henry’s head had lolled to the side, gaze empty, and he faded into unconsciousness. His heart was still beating beneath the heels of Sam’s hands as he tried to staunch the wound, but it was fluttering and weak.

“Sam! Jo’s still in the car on her way. I checked, it’s Lyman downstairs! You need to get out of here!”

Sam jumped as Al’s cried warning followed instantly upon his re-appearance opposite Sam. Al looked down at Henry, wincing.

“He’s still alive, but barely,” Sam said, answering Al’s unspoken question.

“I’ll take care of that.” An unfamiliar voice made both Sam and Al twist around.

At the top of the stairs stood a man that Sam could only assume was Lyman. He had a vicious-looking gun dangling from his hand at his side. He was dressed in an green t-shirt and casual jeans, loose light-brown hair hanging down over his forehead, giving him a young appearance, though he had to be in his forties at least—the only tell was slight crowsfeet around his eyes when he smiled mirthlessly at them. Sam had been expecting a fancy suit and greased hair, the mafia stereotype. Instead he was as nondescript as it was possible to be, which he supposed was a benefit for a hitman. Unnoticed, unmemorable. Exactly the kind of guy who could get away with planting a car bomb, or finding his way into a police-monitored apartment in mid-day.

Lyman lifted the gun and aimed it at Sam.

“Back away from him.”

“He’ll bleed to death,” Sam said.

“That’s the idea.”

“Sam,” Al said, warning tone in his voice. “Ziggy said—“

“I know, I know!” Sam hissed under his breath. Sam could feel his chances of leaping slipping away as surely as Henry’s life was, but he didn’t know what to do.

The question was answered for him when, without the slightest bit of fanfare, Henry’s body flicked out of existence. Blood, clothing, everything gone.

So many amazing things had happened in Sam’s life that he was nearly numb to most events in each leap. Human drama had a tendency to run in themes—love lost, love found, parental drama, offspring drama, problems with jobs, problems with friends. Finding truly unique situations in lives was such a novelty.

Having a man die and disappear from under your hands definitely counted as novel.

No matter where his body had gone, Henry was dead, and Sam’s chances of leaping ever again had evaporated along with Henry’s body. He looked up at Al helplessly.

“Sam, look out,” Al warned.

Sam twisted around and scrambled to his feet as Lyman approached him, taking cautious steps as his eyes flicked from Sam down to the spot where Henry’s body had been. The gun barrel remained trained on Sam’s head with unwavering focus.

“What’s going on?” Lyman asked, hesitant and at odds with the steady hand holding the gun. “What was that?”

“What?” Sam said stupidly, hands hovering in the air, and at Lyman’s disapproving look, he shrugged. “Oh, you mean Henry? Your guess is as good as mine.”

Though Sam’s guess was that he was right now flailing his naked way along the banks of the East River—assuming that Sam was indeed sane, and leaping hadn’t completely fried his brain. This could all be a grand hallucination, he wasn’t completely giving up on that possibility.

“Is this some kind of trick? Where is he?” Lyman moved closer to Sam, the gun up. “You give me a straight answer, I might let you live.”

“Hey! You back off!” Al snapped, uselessly growling in Lyman’s ear.

His hand was balled up and pulled back, despite the fact he could never make himself heard or felt in Sam’s reality. Before he could say anything else, the handlink in his other hand started burbling a little string of musical alerts, and Al glanced at it, surprised. He looked up at Sam with wide eyes.

“Sam! Ziggy says keep him talking.”

“I’ve still got a chance?” Sam murmured.

“Yeah, I’ll give you a chance,” Lyman said, tipping his head to the side with exaggerated largesse as he took Sam’s question to be addressed to him. “I’m a reasonable man. I’ve got a long list of people to square with, but I’ve got no issue with you.”

“Yes!” Al shouted, excited, nearly dancing. “Keep it up.”

“Okay,” Sam said, swallowing hard. He lowered his hands tentatively. “It’s… an illusion. He wasn’t really here.”

“What kind of illusion?” Lyman adjusted his grip on the gun. “Where is he?”

Sam stuttered, trying to find some kind of answer, then glanced from Al back to Lyman.

“Hologram technology. Henry’s a tinkerer, you know? Got this little camera thing, kind of a… It’s hard to explain.”

“Where is he?” Lyman asked again. “I’m losing patience.”

“He’s downstairs,” Sam blurted.

Lyman didn’t respond, eyeing Sam carefully. He finally took a breath and narrowed his eyes. He gestured minutely with the gun towards the stairs.

“Lead the way,” he said.

Sam very carefully picked his way past Lyman, instinctively walking around the area where Henry’s body had been, even though there wasn’t so much as a drop of blood to mark the spot. He moved down the stairs with hands raised, each step creaking loudly, every noise and movement amplified by Sam’s adrenaline-heightened senses.

Behind him, Al tapped at his handlink. Stairs were always an issue with hologram technology, and he had a tendency to relocate himself at the bottom of the staircase rather than move down with Sam. Sure enough, Al appeared at the bottom of the stairs, but rather than looking up at Sam as he came down towards him, Al’s attention was caught by something in the doorway. He looked back up at Sam urgently, nearly hopping with excitement.

“Sam, the minute you get through the doorway, you get to the floor, okay? Just drop.”

Sam nodded a fraction to show he’d understood, and tried not to alter his gait, though he wanted to hurry down the stairs. Lyman was only a few steps behind him, following cautiously. Sam made the last few steps, heartbeat deafening. He took one step through the doorway into the shop.

He met the gaze of Jo Martinez, who was in the shop door with her weapon drawn, backed up by another detective in a suit and two uniformed officers.

Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth, drawing a breath, then her eyes flicked to his half-raised hands, and refocused behind him.

“Now, Sam!” Al shouted.

Sam leapt to the side, throwing himself to the ground behind a desk. Lyman, a step behind him, made a grab for him but missed him by scant inches.

“Hands up!” he heard Jo shout.

Lyman roared and raised his weapon. Sam covered his head as shots rang out, deafening in the contained walls of the shop. Another shot, and then a thud close by.

“Abe! Abe, are you okay?”

Jo’s voice calling to him, the hammering of running footsteps, and Sam lifted his head just in time to see Jo fly around the corner of the desk. She crouched at his side, hooking a hand under his arm to pull him upright.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” he said. “It’s alright.” In the doorway, he could see Lyman’s legs, stretched out, limp.

“Yeah,” she said, following his gaze, her mouth twisted in a deep frown. She blew out a shaking breath. “Hanson got him. Lyman just stood there, firing, and…” She shook herself, refocusing. “Where’s Henry?”

“Oh, right.” Damn, this was a mess. “He—he got away. I thought he was shot, but he managed to run for it.”

“He _what_?”

“We were a few blocks from here. He went one way, I came back to the shop… It’s a long story.”

“That’s usually Henry’s line,” Jo said sourly. She ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face, then shook her head in frustration. “Fine, where is he?”

Sam darted a quick glance at Al, just as Jo’s partner, the guy in the suit, called out to her.

“Hey, Jo? Reece is on the line, have you got a sec?” He was holding up a cell phone towards her.

Jo looked over to her partner, then back to Abe.

“Sorry, I’ll be right back.”

Sam nodded his understanding and she moved over to her partner to grab the phone. Sam turned to face the wall and covered his mouth with a cupped hand so that he could speak covertly with Al. To anyone else, it would look like he was taking a few seconds to collect himself.

“You think Henry’s still alive?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know, but there’s one way to find out.” Al poked at his handlink, then lifted his chin and spoke into the air, voice raised. “Hey Gooshie, centre me on Henry.” Al flicked away.

Sam leaned a shoulder against the wall. His legs were shaking with tension and fear. The action had passed and he still hadn’t leapt out of Abe’s body. At this point, he had no idea if he was going to.

It was barely ten seconds later when Al reappeared. His mouth was hanging open, and he flapped it a few times before he scratched his forehead in confusion.

“Yeah, he’s alive. I think he’s going to need a hand. And some clothes.”

“The river?”

“The river,” Al confirmed. “I’ll meet you there.” With the press of a button, he was gone again.

Sam straightened up and turned around, already rooting for the keys in his pocket as he jogged for the door to the shop.

“Hey!” Jo called out to him as he went past, covering the speaker of the cell phone. “Where are you going?”

“I’m gonna go grab Henry,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Be back in a sec.”

“But—“ she was about to raise a protest, but her attention was caught by whoever was on the other end of the cell phone. She grimaced, then gestured to Sam that he could continue. “Fine, go. But come right back, okay? I need both of your statements.”

“Will do,” Sam said. He fled the store, keys in hand.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam made it to the waterfront just in time to see Henry about to be stuffed into the back of a squad car. He abandoned the car in a loading zone at a jaunty angle, running as fast as Abe’s body would take him towards the police, waving his hands.

“Hey, Henry!”

Henry jerked his head up at the call and he spotted him. His face lit up with agitated excitement.

“Abe!” he called back. “You’re alright!”

“Henry!” Sam made it to the squad car, panting and nearly breathless. “Officers, this is my—my son. I’m sorry, I lost track of him.”

The police looked at each other, then one folded his arms and looked at Abe.

“He’s been trying to tell us that there’s a hostage situation, been insisting we call it in.”

“Oh, yeah. You know what, medication thing,” he brushed aside their concern as best he could. He’d been in this situation more than he cared to admit—usually in Henry’s position—and he smiled as peacefully as he could. “He’s got proper care, just got out on a bad day. I can take him home, save you some trouble.”

The two uniformed officers exchanged another message-laden glance, and the other shrugged.

“I sure don’t want to do the paperwork for his naked butt.”

“Yeah, okay,” the first agreed. He pointed a finger at Henry, who was watching the exchange keenly, clearly exerting a great deal of effort in keeping his mouth shut while Sam chatted in amiable tones with the officers. “Come on, get out. And next time you want to take a swim, try the Y. With a _swimsuit_.”

“Of course, Officer. You have my word.”

Once they saw that Sam was carrying clothes for Henry, they waited long enough for Henry to pull on pants and then sent them on their way. As they drove away in the squad car, both of them were shaking their heads and snickering.

Henry took the shirt and sweatshirt Sam had found in the trunk—they seemed to have several sets in there in a bag, he’d discovered, along with several towels—and accompanied him back to Abe’s waiting car.

“Are you alright?” Henry asked, turning towards him after he’d slipped the t-shirt on.

“Yeah. Lyman’s dead. Jo’s partner, Hanson—he shot him.”

Henry nodded slowly, then looked at Sam with a deep, assessing stare, unblinking for several seconds.

“You’re not Abe, are you? You look like him, but you’re not him.” He frowned, eyes unfocusing as he retreated into memory. “Before I died, I saw…” He stopped in puzzled confusion, and Sam, normally tongue-tied with the need for secrecy, nodded.

“Yeah. I’m Dr. Sam Beckett.”

“Where is Abe?”

Sam heard all the anxious fear of a concerned parent in the question, though Henry gave very little of it away. Wet, bedraggled, dressed in sweat clothes and two seconds from having been arrested for public indecency, Henry comported himself with a calm control that Sam wished he could master.

Then again, if Henry was actually Abe’s father, Sam supposed he had a few more years of practice at keeping secrets than Sam did. If Sam kept leaping, was he going to get better at all the acting and lies?

Before Sam could find an adequate answer, Al appeared at his side.

“Sam! Ziggy’s numbers are going back to normal—Abe, Jo, Hanson all live. Henry here goes on to have a distinguished career here for the next decade, at which point he disappears. I asked Ziggy to track him down after that, but she point-blank refused. Used some pretty rude language, actually, but it boiled down to ‘mind your own business,’ and then she dumped all information on Henry Morgan from her database. Guess the doctor here is going to keep flying under the radar, whatever his deal is.”

Sam smiled at that, and Henry glanced to the side where Al was standing, following Sam’s gaze.

“Your friend?” he asked quietly.

Alive and well now, he couldn’t see Al, but he could guess. Sam licked his lips and nodded hesitantly.

“Yeah. His name is Al.”

Al looked up from his handlink and shot Sam a disapproving look, but Sam ignored him. Henry shifted on his feet, and finally his worry seeped through.

“Who _are_ you?”

“People who try to fix things, make the world a little better.”

“And have you done that?” Henry asked, dubious.

“I think so.” Henry gave no indication of his age, seemed no different outwardly, nothing that gave any clues to his amazing reincarnation act, and Sam couldn’t restrain his curiosity any further. “Can I ask… I mean, are you really Abe’s dad? How old are you anyway?”

Henry shrugged on the sweatshirt Sam had brought, and his head popped out the top. He folded his arms with his lips thinned and pressed firmly closed on any answer.

“Hah!” Al cried, stabbing a finger at Henry’s face. “That, I’ve been staring at that damned expression on Abe’s face since he got there. He sure as hell is his dad.”

“You know a lot about me,” Henry finally said.

“And you know a lot about me. I’d say both of us are used to keeping secrets. Normally I come and go without anyone ever knowing. I sneak in for a day or two, do what needs doing, then leave again. Abe’s going to be right back. When he is, all the events of the last day will feel like normal history, like I was never here.”

Henry lifted an eyebrow then shook his head in speechless bemusement.

“Your secret is safe with us,” Sam reassured him. “Looks like our project computer, Ziggy, is on your side—she’s already erased all information on you from our records.”

“Sam, Ziggy says that’s it—you’re out of here,” Al cut in when his handlink beeped at him.

“Well! That’s that, then.” Sam stuck out his hand. After a moment Henry took it, clasping it tight, still uncertain and hesitant. “It was good to meet you, Henry Morgan.”

Mid-shake, the familiar bright blue flash obscured Sam’s vision.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture beaches and piña coladas. Maybe one of these days it would work.

***

Abe blinked as a spell of dizziness hit him. He clung to the hand in his grip as he shuffled his feet to keep his balance.

It was Henry who reached out to him and steadied him by the elbow.

“Henry?” He looked him over, scanning around. The river, the sweat suit. “Oh for god’s sake Henry, not again! What the hell happened this time?”

Henry opened his mouth to make his excuse, then frowned deeply.

“You know, I’m a little unclear on the details.”

Abe looked at Henry looking back at him, the feeling that he was forgetting something niggling at the back of his mind. From the about-to-sneeze expression on Henry’s face, he was struggling with the same.

“Lyman,” Henry finally said, looking back to Abe. “He was in our apartment.”

“He’s dead,” Abe said automatically, and then shook his head. How had he known that? It was in his head—the entire scene of throwing himself to the floor, the sound of the shots taking Lyman down—but it was like he’d watched a movie of his own life.

“Are you alright?” Henry asked, solicitous.

“Yeah… yeah, I think so. But we’d better get back to the shop before Jo gets pissed off at us. More pissed off than she already is, I mean.”

“Yes, of course.”

Before Abe could turn to the car, Henry wrapped him in a fierce hug. Normally Abe gave Henry a hard time for his sappy affection, but for a reason he couldn’t put his finger on, it was like a homecoming he desperately needed. He returned the hug with all his strength.

“Thanks, Dad,” he murmured quietly.

“I’m glad you’re safe, Abe.” Henry released Abe and backed up, drawing a cleansing breath. “Well, back to the shop to face the music, then?”

“Yep. Why don’t we compare notes on the way? I feel like I might be missing something.”

“As do I. I’m sure we’ll sort it out, however. We always do.” He patted Abe on the back, and Abe snorted, only half-amused.

Boy, keeping Henry’s secret was exhausting work.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm tagging this work as a gift for superlc529 because this fic would not have been written if not for her. Her enthusiasm and excitement for the idea got me through, as did her great guidance when I was stuck and floundering around in the middle of writing it.
> 
> She's a total gift to the Forever fandom, and this fic can only account for a tiny little bit of the amount of thanks I want to give her for her beautiful, positive attitude, great comments, and awesomeness. 
> 
> Thanks, L, you're wonderful, and I'm so happy to share a fandom with someone like you. <3


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